


House of Healing

by Porphyrios



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rivendell | Imladris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29388783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porphyrios/pseuds/Porphyrios
Summary: Bilbo returns to Rivendell on his way home, bitter, broken and grieving.  He is surprised to find an elf awake in the middle of the night with him, someone who has always seemed cheerful.  Company isn't always welcome in grief, but sometimes others can understand what we are going through.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 24
Kudos: 51





	House of Healing

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not tagging it as part of the series, but I strongly suspect this conversation went on in the world of @Tamloid's 'Reflection in a Mirror'.
> 
> Love you all! <3 <3 <3

Bilbo barely spoke during the long month's travel from Erebor to Rivendell. He rode along on his pony beside Gandalf gamely enough, responded when spoken to or when it was socially necessary, but for the most part he kept his head down and was silent. Gone was the garrulous hobbit of the outward trip; even dour Beorn eyed him curiously, but the hobbit wielded his politeness like an impenetrable shield. He would smile, flicker-fast, make a self-deprecating comment, occasionally give a patently false chuckle when socially appropriate, but then a curtain would fall behind his eyes and he would turn away.

Only once did Gandalf see what seemed to be a truly heartfelt reaction. As they were passing through Greenwood, they stopped for food and an escort through the elf-roads at Thranduil's court. Though the king himself had not yet returned from Erebor, he had given the pair a travel pass to his court certifying that they should be treated as royal envoys and receive all possible aid. When they arrived, and the elven chamberlains threw wide the doors of the palace for them to pass through, Gandalf (who had heard the story from the dwarves of their first ill-fated trip through Mirkwood) said "Quite the royal reception! Thorin Oakenshield would never have believed this, had he seen it." 

Bilbo turned to the wizard, hazel eyes quite atypically cold and hard, and replied "Do not speak his name to me! How dare you! You never cared for him when he was alive, and you only cared for his death because it might upset your plans. He was more than just..." and with that, he clamped his lips shut and turned his face aside, glaring. The hobbit fled to his room at the first opportunity, claiming exhaustion, and the next day gave no indication of any upset in manner except for a refusal to speak. No matter how Gandalf wheedled and cajoled him, though, he would not say a word, and this uncharacteristic silence lasted for days. Gandalf had suspected that Bilbo might have grown attached to Thorin, but this was proof enough for the wizard to realize that he had badly underestimated the depth of Bilbo's affection for the prickly dwarven king.

As they arrived in Rivendell, Gandalf watched closely. Bilbo did not look up, did not smile beyond the barest courtesy to his host, and gave no indication that he noticed that he was no longer on the road beyond a weary groan and surreptitious rub of his lower back. He went to bed after a brief thanks to Elrond, a nod to the wizard, and a sigh that had the lord of Rivendell and the grey wizard eyeing each other in concern.

=

Bilbo awoke in the wee small hours of the night. He knew he was in Rivendell, even upon waking; the scent of flowers was present as it was in few places outside the Shire, and there was a warmth in the open halls that scarcely suited the middle of winter. He put on his clothes, knowing from bitter experience that there was no point in seeking more sleep; his dreams had been full of the screams of the dying, the roars of orcs and wolves, the shrieking of bats, the shouting of dwarves. Slowly, almost painfully, he picked his way along the open walk outside his room and into the gardens. The waning moon hung high overhead in a sky more full of stars than seemed possible, and the pale light that lay on the gardens turned every flower white, every leaf silver-traced black. He thought at first to walk along the gravel path for a bit, but soon enough his back protested, still sore from the long ride across the mountain trails. When he went to sit, there was a mighty figure on the nearest bench.

He vaguely recognized the elf, primarily because he looked so unlike the other elves Bilbo had seen. Tall and broad, almost burly, he was far more massive than the average woodland elf, or even the blond Sindari like Thranduil and his son. He had been cheerful looking, Bilbo remembered; always smiling, laughing and joking with anyone nearby. Tonight, however, he seemed to have left his good mood elsewhere. What was his name, the hobbit thought with a sigh. Glor-something. Deciding it wasn't worth the trouble to rack his memory, he sat down. "Good evening," he said softly, not really wanting company but willing to endure it. "Bilbo Baggins, at your service." He looked at his feet, kicking idly as he sat on the high bench. "I see I'm not the only one with trouble sleeping."

"Glorfindel of Rivendell at yours, Master Baggins," came the melodious voice. "These hours of the night are most difficult for those of us who remember." Bilbo's brow creased, since Glorfindel hadn't been at the final battle, what Ori was suggesting be called 'Battle of the Five Armies' before the hobbit's departure. A ridiculous name, Bilbo thought, both uselessly pretentious and quite incapable of expressing how truly horrible it had been.

"Remember what?" Bilbo asked, almost fearing the answer. He could feel the melancholy radiating from the other, far different from the cheerful elf he thought he remembered from their initial trip. Perhaps this was the other side of good cheer, the hobbit thought. He glanced over at the elf, who was gazing at him in what appeared to be sympathy.

"What we cannot forget." Eyes rendered almost invisible by the uncertain moonlight were still palpable on Bilbo's face. Yes, the hobbit thought sadly. What we cannot forget indeed.

"Yes, I... I suppose you elves see quite a few horrible things, living so long," Bilbo said. "I'm sure it must be difficult." He looked out across the gardens, silvered blossoms nodding gently in the barely-there night breeze, fireflies visible here and there in the gardens in direct defiance of the season elsewhere in the land. "I myself am barely middle aged by the standards of my people, but I have seen..." a sob hit him suddenly, unexpectedly, like a knife in the gut, and Bilbo rode it out. "Far too much," he finally choked out. "Entirely too much." Memories of a dying king in his arms, two young dwarves lying dead, piles of bodies of every race, wounds upon wounds, sightless eyes staring at a sky they would never again see.

"Just so," Glorfindel said softly, head tilted back and half-closed eyes gazing at the stars above. "Too much, as you say. Seen too much, done too much, suffered too much. And when the fire burns out..." he gestured with one hand. "Only ashes remain." Bilbo nodded. Yes, he thought. Ashes indeed.

They sat together in silence until light appeared on the horizon. Without a word, Glorfindel rose, gave him a companionable nod and departed, and Bilbo went back to his rooms.

The next few days passed in a daze, Bilbo trying and failing to find the peace for which the Last Homely House was renowned. Food still had no savor, and no matter where he went or what he did, it seemed empty and dull. Waking again from bitter dreams, he was surprised to find Glorfindel sitting in the garden once more. They spent hours as they had the first night, just sitting together in silence, but in the black hours before dawn Bilbo glanced at his brooding companion. "I never thought..." he began, then stopped. Glorfindel turned to look at him rather than the stars, but then sat, still as a statue. His stillness gave Bilbo the courage to continue. "When I was young, I always thought I would... I don't know, settle down like a proper hobbit ought. I'd find someone, we'd get on, and... and we could make a home of it." The elf nodded, only once, and Bilbo had to look away from the sorrow in the shadowed eyes. "I never did, somehow. I suppose..." he sighed and kicked his feet idly while perching on the too-high bench, looking around at the flowers still somehow visible even in the dim starlight. "I suppose I'd given up on all such thoughts of anyone else. But when Gandalf came to my door with all those dwarves, and I saw him... I just knew." For the first time, the elf reacted. Even in the extremely dim light, Bilbo could feel his startled eyes.

"I must assume your interest was not in Mithrandir... I have always suspected that what he knew of love could be stored in a thimble with room still left for the finger." Glorfindel's smirking half-grin made Bilbo scoff in disgust. The very idea!

"Definitely not that wretched, meddling old... well. Excuse me." He shook his head irritably and cleared his throat, ignoring Glorfindel's undignified snort of amusement. "No, the one who captured my eye was Thorin Oakenshield, a king without a throne and unfairly good looking to boot - as if the idea of a hobbit finding a dwarf attractive isn't the most ridiculous notion in the world! Even so, he stood out among the others like a raven among daisies. He was no charmer; truth be told, he was as vile to me for the first weeks of our journey as anyone I had ever known. And yet... and yet. I think... at the end, I think he had come to feel the same as I did. Balin told me he had at any rate, and he was Thorin's closest councilor so he would know. But we never talked about it, not properly. In the battle... Thorin died in my arms." Bilbo's face creased, folding up in sorrow, and Glorfindel nodded, brow furrowed in sympathy. "I'm sure you think me silly, since by elvish standards I am so young, but... it was so... Thorin and I, we never... I don't..." and Bilbo fought a sob, voice not up to continuing. His face tensed, fighting not to give way to tears and he looked away, visibly gathering himself.

"I am ancient, Bilbo Baggins," Glorfindel said softly, in a normal voice as though it were a commonplace thing to say. "Elrond is still a babe compared to me. I remember the times before the sun and moon were hung in the sky, before even the lamps, when there were only stars. But I understand your pain all too well; I wish I did not. My dearest Ecthelion died before my eyes at the fall of Gondolin. I was not even able to embrace him, to bid him farewell, to bid him wait..." The elf trailed off, shaking his head. "He was so beautiful and so brave, and we were so convinced that we were immortal..." The elf broke off and stared into the night sky, then drew in a shuddering breath. "It was thousands of years ago now, and even so... even so I remember. I can see him even now in my heart, shining radiant and tall, a pillar of light against the shadow. And I am so sorry for your loss, Master Baggins. I assure you, there is no age at which such a thing is not a terrible burden on the soul." One strong hand rested for a moment on Bilbo's shoulder, and the hobbit began to cry in earnest, great gulping sobs racking his body. The elf sat quietly in the near-darkness, and the only indication of his presence to Bilbo was the pressure of his hand, still on the hobbit's shoulder. Finally Bilbo began to pull himself together, feeling grumpy and out of sorts and rather foolish.

"Please excuse me, I didn't mean..." A soft scoffing sound was the only reply, and Bilbo let his words trail off. After minutes had passed and the conversation seemed to have died, Bilbo found himself asking very quietly, "How did you... cope?" Glorfindel sighed, shifting on the bench, and for a brief moment Bilbo was worried that the enormous elf lord was about to leave but he settled back and stared off into the distance..

"Time. Patience. With myself, and with the others who want to... 'help'." Bilbo snickered in spite of himself at the bitterness in the last word; it was a bitterness he had come to know in the past month like he knew his own soul. "I was broken for a time." A soft chuckle. "Longer than a time, if I am honest, and perhaps more than simply broken as well. Many things happened, but... even so, I know that he waits for me. We shall be reunited again, when the Shadow is gone at last."

"How... how do you know?" Bilbo asked in a broken voice. "I want to think that but... I find it hard to believe." The elf chuckled again, this time with a wistful sound to his words.

"I believe because I know what is to come better than most, Master Baggins. I have met Mandos Himself, both in his Halls and abroad in Aman, passing from place to place on his own errands. It was promised that my fierce Ecthelion and I should meet again. In truth I think all true loves are so, that they shall come together again before the end of things." Under normal circumstances, Bilbo knew that he would be either awed or disbelieving of such a claim, but in the darkness of the garden, he just felt a quiet sort of acceptance. The hobbit kicked his feet again, looking up at where the peaks of the mountains to the east were becoming barely visible in the cold grey light of the first dawn. Bilbo sighed softly, thinking back to the few tales of religion in his childhood, and wanted to believe so desperately, but the hole in his heart called them lies even so.

"Our stories tell that we hobbits were made by the Green Lady, as we know her. I think the elves call her Yavanna Kementari, and our tales say that we join her in her Gardens when we die," Bilbo said in a quiet voice, almost whispering. "But... but it is said that the dwarves go... elsewhere. Thorin told me before he... told me at our farewell that he was going to the... the Halls of his Fathers, to the Smith." He cleared his throat and turned, looking at Glorfindel, for the first time speaking a fear that had haunted him since the funeral. "How could it be that we might be reunited? I want to believe you, but..." Glorfindel's laugh rang out suddenly, sharp and clear as a horn, almost shockingly loud in the stillness of the sleeping garden.

"Master Baggins, know this from one who has seen it for himself: no being denies your Maker anything she wants. Eru Iluvatar Himself loves Yavanna dearly, and her works are pleasing to Him; He bent the Song of Creation itself to give her what she desired more than once, and that is a gift beyond reckoning even among the Valar. Of all beings beneath the arch of heaven, her husband Aule would not dream of denying her aught she desired, be it never so against his wishes. Believe me, if it is your destiny to be with one of Aule's dwarves, she will make it so, though all the Valar bid her nay. And for what it is worth, I cannot believe that you two should have such a feeling between you without it being destined so." He sighed, allowing his hand to fall at last from the small shoulder beneath it. "We two share this burden, though. Our task is a hard one, perhaps the hardest of all; simply to wait. To wait, and endure, until the time comes that we arrive in the West ourselves. You have things left to do, Master Baggins. And no being that walks the earth can do them save yourself, whether these tasks are small or large. The world will be poorer if anything is left undone." The hobbit scowled.

"I don't want to wait," Bilbo said fiercely. "I wish I had died in that battle as well, if he could not survive! I would have... I would have died with him gladly. I wish I had." He turned to the elf, glaring, as though the elf had scoffed or doubted him. "I have wished a hundred times that I could have gone with him, that..." Glorfindel shook his head, and even in the uncertain light of the false dawn his expression of sadness was clear to the hobbit.

"We all have wishes of how things could be, or could have been, or should be. If wishes ruled, I assure you the white walls of Gondolin would still stand, and I and my love would be atop them, laughing and joyous, inseparable as two flames on the same torch. But this is our fate, Master Baggins, to sit and wait with patience. Others need you, though your heart cries out at the unfairness of it all. Your work... our work... is not yet done. And until it is done, we cannot go." The elf looked to the west, into the shadows still piled high in what remained of the night, but Bilbo suspected that his companion wasn't seeing anything in the world so simple as darkness. "No matter how desperately we may wish to at times."

There didn't seem to be much more to be said. Together they sat until the light of day began to truly show itself and the birds began chirping to herald the coming sun, and they went their separate ways for the day. That afternoon Bilbo saw Glorfindel at a distance, and when he looked at the shining, happy elf, head thrown back in laughter, he remembered the way he had seemed the night before. Even in that joy, the hobbit realized, there could still be a core of sorrow. He would never imagine that the laughing, jesting elf lord who was currently throwing pine cones at Elrond's stuffy chamberlain could stare off into the west with such bereavement but... With a heavy-hearted sigh Bilbo returned to his room, but the vision stayed.

That night, Bilbo was waiting in the garden before Glorfindel arrived. He wondered idly if the elf would appear, but it wasn't as if he had anything else to do. Sleep was impossible; visions of Thorin's broken body bleeding on the stones flashed in his mind every time his eyes drifted closed. He was almost asleep once when the howls and shrieks of goblins seemed to echo through the room. He bolted upright, but there was nothing there... of course, he thought with disgust, as if goblins could find their way into Rivendell. Sighing, he dressed himself and went out into the garden. The moon was smaller now, rising even later, a cold white rind in the eastern sky. Bilbo sometimes wondered if that was all that was left of his heart, just a thin rind of what was once there, a small shriveled thing all that was left after so much pain and loss. When Glorfindel strode into the garden, the hobbit barely looked up but slid over on the bench.

"You have become my nightly companion," the elf said with a half-chuckle.

"I can go," Bilbo said in return, motioning as if to stand, but the elf reached out a hand to place on Bilbo's shoulder.

"Peace, Master Baggins, you are welcome here. I spoke in greeting, not dismissal." Bilbo subsided back onto the bench. "My apologies; you are right in this. These hours are not for jests."

"Sleep is not an option, Master Glorfindel, but I can leave you if you wish it. Company is not always welcome, and..." a lazy wave of a large hand cut him off.

"As I said, I apologize, Master Baggins. I would far rather sit with someone who understands than I would sit alone." He grinned mirthlessly. "Though sitting alone is preferable at times to sitting with those who do not understand." The elf looked about himself and settled back with a groan. "Sleep is not an option, indeed. Well said."

Bilbo turned to his companion. "I saw you today. You were... joking, playing, throwing pine cones at Lindir." The elf nodded, glancing over at him, and Bilbo felt strange asking the question, but it burned in him. "You looked... happy. How?"

"Ah." Glorfindel nodded slowly, then leaned down and plucked a large leaf off the ground, turning it in his fingers as he spoke. "I have learned to put the sorrow aside most times, especially when I am with others. You will as well, in time. Over time, the feelings fade a bit. Enough to function, at least. It will not always be like..." he motioned with the leaf at Bilbo, "like it is now. Now the wound is fresh, still bleeding, and every motion of the mind pulls it open, makes it agonize all over again. As time passes the wound heals more or less, becomes a scar, and then it just... aches. Pulls. Twinges." Around and around went the leaf, almost hypnotically. "But it never goes away, I'm afraid. You never wake up to find that it doesn't hurt at all. I'm sorry to tell you that, and even sorrier to have to know it for myself."

Bilbo nodded slowly. That wasn't what he wanted to hear, but somehow he had known it already. These feelings were too strong to just fade away completely. For the first time, he really looked at Glorfindel sitting beside him. The elf lord was timeless and appeared young and fresh, but knowing what he knew, Bilbo could see the tension in his face and hands, the sorrow etched around those ageless eyes. A breath of compassion moved him, the first thread of a different feeling seeming almost painful after weeks of nothing but sorrow and loss and heartbreak. "Tell... tell me about him," he stammered, feeling vaguely ashamed to ask. "If it would help. If not, I don't mean to pry, I..." The elf lord's laughter rang out again.

"I would be honored." And so they sat and Bilbo heard the tale of Ecthelion Lord of the Fountains, and Gondolin, but not as it would appear in a history book or teaching song; this Ecthelion was funny, brash, and irreverent, powerful but light-hearted, and the hobbit understood why he and the golden-haired Glorfindel were so well matched. It was strange to hear of such a heroic being as seen through a lover's eyes. Bilbo was vaguely familiar with Gondolin as an elven city from long ago, but this... this was like knowing Ecthelion himself. His grey eyes, his moods, his struggles with his family and the way he wore his raven-black hair. For an hour or more, he listened, and he was so rapt at the stories being told he forgot his own sorrow for minutes at a time. In the end, Glorfindel grew still and quiet, and he told of the final fight with Gothmog, and how Ecthelion had dragged the balrog down with himself into the fountain that was his namesake and source of power, and how the water had run black and foul and hidden the bodies of lover and foe alike beneath its inky ripples. For a while they sat, each lost in their own thoughts, and the elf stirred and glanced over at Bilbo. "I would hear of your Thorin as well, if you wish to speak."

"I... I don't... I didn't... know him like you knew Ecthelion, I'm afraid. Sometimes, I fear I didn't know Thorin at all, that this is all some fever dream of an aging hobbit who never had..." Bilbo stopped himself this time. His mouth firmed, and he drew his shoulders up and squared them. "When I first met Thorin Oakenshield, he appeared at my door and called me a grocer before he even sat down." Bilbo spun the story of Gandalf's deception for the elf, of the journey and their first trip through Rivendell, the goblins, Beorn, on and on until Thorin's death, and the sorrow was tempered by speaking. This was the first time he had told the story, and if it rambled and wandered, Glorfindel didn't seem to mind. He snickered at Bilbo's descriptions of Thranduil, he was saddened by the dragon sickness and the war, and when Bilbo reached the end of his tale the hobbit felt as though a wind had blown through him, stirring all the ashes. "I don't know why I loved him," he finally said, after minutes of silence had ticked by. "There were many reasons not to do so, good ones. He was prickly, and proud, and as I said before he could be incredibly rude, but... not loving him was never an option. His voice was like a rich smoky mead. His eyes were the most particular blue. He had such a lovely face, and such wonderfully broad shoulders, and his hands were so huge and strong, and he... he gave himself so completely to everything he did. Thorin was like a raging forest fire, racing forward, and I was always... just running along behind, trying to keep up." He glanced over at his companion, who was gazing back with a gentle look of understanding. "Thorin wasn't like anyone else I have ever met. Most people hold themselves back, at least a little... but I felt like when he looked at me he saw me, down to the cores of my bones, and... and even if he didn't always like what he saw, he _cared_. He could just look at me, only a simple look, and I would feel..." his hands rose, fell, unable to express what was in his heart with words.

"And that is love, Master Baggins," Glorfindel said sadly, smiling off into the distance. "To be truly seen can be terrifying, but to be truly seen and loved... that is worth anything." Bilbo nodded, forced to agree in spite of himself.

"That's why losing it is so painful," the hobbit whispered, provoking a nod from his companion. "You said last night that we have tasks to do before we go. What do you mean?" Glorfindel sighed, looking away, still fiddling with the leaf in his hands.

"Each of us has things to do, Master Baggins. We aren't told what they are. They may be great deeds, like slaying balrogs or taking back mountains from dragons; they may be small ones, like feeding a beggar or comforting a child. Regardless, these are things that must be done. We don't know what they are beforehand. Often, we don't even know afterwards. The beggar you feed may one day become a king; the child you comfort may turn aside from a dark path and seek one that is better. Or, they may not, there is no way to know." Massive shoulders rose and fell. "But these little goodnesses must be done. They are all that stand between our world and the Shadow. A million tiny candles can still disperse more darkness than one giant bonfire, and it is those candles that we each must light in the time we have left." When Bilbo looked up, Glorfindel's face was radiant and for the first time, the hobbit saw the age and power of this elf with whom he had been sitting quietly in a dark garden. The ageless face was powerful and luminous in the darkness, dark eyes piercing and staring through the hobbit as if he could see something that Bilbo could not. "I think... I think you still have a great role to play in this world, before you leave it. And I will tell you also... for all the sorrow you feel now, there are still joys ahead before you see your Thorin again."

"I... good heavens," Bilbo said, feeling overwhelmed without quite knowing why. The last sentence rang in him like a bell, and the idea of seeing Thorin again made his heart leap in spite of itself, as though Bilbo had just spotted the dwarf coming through the gate into the garden. He immediately felt guilty, as though his heart snapped back from feeling anything other than misery and grief, but still he remembered even for a second feeling something else: hope. "Thank you," he said in a choked voice. "I pray that you are correct. I just don't want to feel like this forever."

Glorfindel withdrew back into himself, the radiance fading, dimming, and vanishing into the elf lord Bilbo had thought he had known like the sun passing behind a cloud. "You shall not," the tall elf said bluntly. "But you will never forget this sorrow either, until you two are rejoined at last." And with that, the companion Bilbo was familiar with was back, raising a sardonic eyebrow as though nothing had happened. "It helps me sometimes to write him letters; you may wish to give it a try once you get home. I put them in the fire because they are too personal, but who knows, maybe they get delivered that way. Dearest Ecthelion, I thought of you in the forest this morning. I saw where a wren had built a nest of some dark twigs and it reminded me of your hair on a windy day..." Bilbo snorted in shocked amusement, not expecting anything of the kind, then was startled at himself. That was the first laugh he had felt since the battle.

"I have a favor to ask," Bilbo said with a bit of shyness. He wanted to ask before the display of power but now he felt a bit ridiculous. Even so, Glorfindel looked down at him, smiling, so he continued. "Please call me Bilbo. I would be honored to consider you a friend."

"Friends we are already, Ma... Bilbo, but it is my honor as well." Glorfindel clasped the hobbit's hand formally, as though they were in a hall in front of others instead of sitting in a garden in the dead of night. "We share a burden, as we have discussed. If I can help you in any way, simply let me know." Bilbo smiled, a small smile but a real one, and he began to hope that things might not be coming to an end after all.

The next day, Bilbo felt... cleaner, somehow. Brighter. Far from healed, but not so much like every moment was torment. Glorfindel departed on some errand, and Bilbo stayed for a few more days, trying to find comfort in the things he remembered from his first trip, the library and the kitchens, the company of scholars and the halls of music. And things were better... a bit, anyway. Finally the day came that Gandalf said they must depart in the morning, and Bilbo made a final tour and bade farewell to the places that had given him comfort in his misery. When they were leaving, Glorfindel rode in on a white horse, smiling and laughing, and he dismounted right where Bilbo and Gandalf were taking their leave of Elrond.

"Master Baggins," the elf called, then corrected himself. "Bilbo, you are leaving?" Ignoring Gandalf and Elrond's startled looks at his familiarity, Bilbo nodded, looking melancholy.

"We are indeed, Glorfindel," he said, "but I will have you know that I expect you to visit me in the Shire at your earliest convenience! My door is always open, and tea is at four." At this pronouncement, the elf lord laughed his clear laugh, and reached into a pocket.

"I may do so, we shall have to see how things fall out," he said with a smile. "But here, I have brought you something." Bilbo reached out his hand and looked with surprise at the pine cone, a large one, that the elf lord had handed him. "When you see someone like our dear Lindir, so caught up in his own little world that he is oblivious to others, or someone who needs to be reminded of the sillier side of life, just throw that at them, will you?" Bilbo laughed in spite of himself, a real laugh this time. He looked at the pine cone, weighed it in his hand.

"I will," he promised Glorfindel. "I will indeed." With that, he turned and with one throw, knocked Gandalf's hat off his head with the pine cone. Elrond guffawed, seeming to startle himself, and even the stately Lindir gave an unseemly smirk. Glorfindel, for his part, laughed so hard he would have fallen if he hadn't braced himself against his horse. Gandalf picked up his hat with a sideways glance at Bilbo and the two departed for the Shire, laughter of the elves ringing in their ears. Perhaps, Bilbo thought, I can survive this after all. As he walked, he began to compose a letter in his mind. Dear Thorin...


End file.
